The Crasher (12 page)

“Please excuse me, Mrs. Formere…”

“Oh, do call me Sophie, dear.”

“Er, Sophie, I must wash my hair. I’m seeing a lot of photographers tomorrow.”

“Oh! I do hope there’s enough hot water…” Fuss, fuss, rush, rush. Sophie was so kind, Ginny kept telling herself, but how
on earth was she going to put up with it?

Alex was supposed to pick her up at nine sharp the next morning to take her downtown, where many of the hot photographers
lived in a kind of exclusive commune.

Nine
A.M
. arrived and departed; so did nine-thirty, when Mrs. Formere—er, Sophie—still talking and smiling, went about her business
with a gentle reminder to Ginny to double-lock the door when she went out to become the model of the decade.

At nine-forty someone phoned on Alex’s behalf. “He’s been called into an emergency meeting.” The voice was so languid (and
sexless), it took away any anxiety over the word “emergency.”

“A photographer’s agent will be calling you shortly, so don’t leave the phone.” Pause. “His name’s Sam Swid…”

“Swid as in S-W-I-D?”

“Yep.” Click.

By noon nobody had called; so, thanking God for Esme Jee, Ginny called the Wizard of Oz and spoke to an answering machine
with such loud Heavy D background music, she could hardly hear the message. Just as she was about to hang up, the earsplitting
sound stopped and a voice that sounded as if it belonged to a redwoods man with thick fatherly beard boomed over the line.

It was Oz himself.

He seemed to know who she was. “Come on down,” he said, “about five-thirty, six. I should be through by then…”

As she was leaving in the late afternoon instead of the morning, she scribbled Sophie a note, in case her “chaperone” thought
she’d been kidnapped. Sam Swid hadn’t called. To Hades with him and all the other promise-breakers in the world.

After putting on and taking off everything in her wardrobe, she finally decided to wear a drop-dead two-piece white suit,
made from a double-damask tablecloth she’d found on sale at Bloomingdale’s. It was deceptively simple, definitely bosom enhancing—a
necessity for her optimistic size A and narrow frame.

She couldn’t afford it, but she took a cab because she wanted to arrive in as pristine a condition as possible, and already
she was sweating her makeup off through nerves and an unexpected heat wave outside.

She didn’t know how to get to Tribeca and there was no one around to ask. The problem was the taxi driver didn’t know and
didn’t care to ask, either. She only found that out after being driven round and round in circles. So much for her perfect
daily budget, carefully worked out with all the expertise of her finance degree. It was already used up by the time the driver
discovered Oz’s address. He screeched to a halt with a smile of triumph on his money-grabbing face as if he’d discovered the
source of the Nile.

It was well after six. Would Oz still be home?

Ginny sighed. Of course, his studio would have to be on the top floor. She staggered up five flights of irregular stairs,
massive blasts of Heavy D getting nearer.

Blinding light and deafening sound poured through a wide open door. She had arrived. After two or three blinks, she saw she
was in a huge loft, white walls, white floors, whiter-than-white everything, probably making her double-damask look dingy.

At the far end, through tall, curtainless windows, she saw a dramatic panorama of docks, boats, cranes. New York Harbor? For
a crazy minute she forgot where she was. The light was so bright, the white so dazzling, she had to put her hand over her
eyes to scout the huge space for Oz or any sign of life.

It was there all right, in a far corner, where, their backs to her, a bunch of people were scrutinizing something laid out
on a table.

Layouts? Polaroids? She knew little about the steps leading up to the finished product, the glossy, better-than-life picture
in a magazine, the only kind Alex wanted her to consider.

She looked around. There were a couple of really sleazy pictures on one of the walls, nudes with tongues hanging out, just
asking for it.

She was scared, could feel her heart thumping against the wired bra top of her jacket. She wished she was back safe among
the fringes, waiting for Sam Swid’s call.

There was a burst of laughter, so raucous it managed to be heard between drumbeats. A tall, thinner-than-a-rake guy with supernaturally
pale skin and sleek jet hair held back with a comb, turned away from the table and spotted her. He was in black from top to
toe, which made him look like a vampire. Ginny wondered if he was the famous photographer Steven Meisel, who only ever wore
black. Did one photographer, who’d already made it, visit another, who was about to?

Somebody said, “Hel-looo, there. You must be…”

“Ginny Walker.” She tried to sound confident.

Like a Martha Graham choreographed slow-motion ballet the group at the table turned, one by one, to look at the interloper.
Now she could see why they’d been so engrossed. The long table was covered with food, mounds of food, technicolored shrimps
and lobsters carelessly spilling out from giant clam shells, golden loaves and silver fishes, rich brown Japanese baskets
(gorgeous) full of tactile, perfectly shaped vegetables and fruit. To photograph? To eat?

Tall and skinny ambled over, followed by a burly bearded man in jeans and button-down shirt. Remembering the voice on the
phone, she placed her money on the beard and gave him what Alex called her best “tail wagging” smile.

She lost.

“I’m Oz,” said tall and skinny. “Don’t tell me. I’m good
with names. Ginny Walters?” He turned to the beard. “She’s brand-new.”

As she corrected her name, “Thought so,” said the beard. “Who’s she with? Looks like Elite with those fascinating, slightly
crooked teeth.”

“I like the Audrey Hepburn chin, too. With the sixties coming in again, well you never know…”

So that was the accurate description of her pointy chin, but
you
never know
what?
The bearded one was as chatty as Mrs. F., but not
to
her-about her.

Oz, giving her a lank hand to shake, and the beard started to spout off about her looks in a car salesman sort of way. “Natural
… original… too little color… a sort of hidden raciness…”

Another man chimed in. “Too thin.”

How dare he! Didn’t these terribly “in” people know one couldn’t be too rich or too thin?

They had to be on something, but Ginny was still too scared to move and run. It was as if she was glued to the excessively
white floor, not knowing what to expect, except perhaps to be offered some grass.

“Take a roll of film on her, Oz.”

“Go stand on the no seam.”

She was still glued. What was he talking about? Oz put his hand on her arm and guided her to a vast sweeping sheet of seamless
paper.

“Drop your skirt, please. Just—boom—right there where you’re standing.”

Had she heard what she thought she heard? Her mouth, Ginny knew, had formed an exact O as she stared at a deeply tanned woman
who had materialized beside Oz. Even in her terror Ginny noted there were both straight pins and safety pins stuck in the
woman’s white shirt, as white as the room, rubber bands around her wrists, no makeup, hair scrunched unbecomingly back, all
business. Was she about to be raped by a lesbian?

The tan cracked into a smile. “Trust me. I’m Lee Baker Davies, a stylist. Your jacket is long enough—you’ll still be
decent. I want to see your legs. We’re looking for great legs for Hanes. Your arrival could be divine providence.”

Not for her. This was intolerable. Now she could see a couple of girls, who had to be models, standing by the table, either
minus their skirts or wearing the shortest minis in fashion history.

She’d always considered her legs to be pretty good, but her father’s voice was loud in her ears, going on about joining the
meat market. “No, not today.” She was amazed how firm she sounded.

“She’s right. Not today. Tomorrow.” Oz smiled at her. He had a terrific quirky smile. His teeth, although also slightly crooked,
were not in the least bit fascinating, but then they didn’t need to be.

“Let’s talk,” he said vaguely.

The Heavy D din had ceased. Now there was a babble of voices and she could see plumes of smoke curling up and smell the sweet
sickly smell of marijuana.

The sun began to go down, its great glow outside the window making everyone around the harvest festival table look rosy. No
one took any notice of her, so she took a plate and filled it with the photogenic fruit and vegetables, trying to look as
if she belonged there. The conversation was fascinating.

“Serena was my booker,” one skirtless, gorgeous redhead who looked about ten feet tall was saying to another ten-footer, this
one ice-blonde. “She wanted me to go with her when she opened her agency, but I knew it wouldn’t last. She hasn’t the brains
for the long haul and getting the best contracts. She just took the money from one of those fat short zillionaires, who let
her stay in the black for as long as she supplied a different beautiful girl every night. As soon as one hooked him, he closed
the agency down.”

“I’m going to Click…”

“Eileen is suing…”

“When is she handing over?”

“Never!”

“Enjoying yourself?” Oz’s hand encircled her waist, then moved up casually to her right breast.

“Don’t do that.”

He ignored her, his hand staying awhile in forbidden territory before moving slowly back to her waist. “Tomorrow, come back
tomorrow. Bring a selection of things. Esme’s snap was okay. You do have a new look, maybe the one I’m looking for.”

“How… how… sorry, how do I get uptown by subway or bus from here?”

“Where d’you hang out?” He saw the tanned one striding toward the door. “Lee, are you going uptown? Will you give Ms. Puritan
a lift?”

“Sure thing.”

Before Ginny knew it, having promised to be back at ten in the morning with a selection of clothes, she was sitting with Lee
Baker Davies in a sedan with a Big Apple sign in the window, going fast uptown.

“You’re really new to this business, aren’t you?”

Ginny huddled in the corner with her hands crossed in front like a prize fighter. “Well, yes.”

Although she hadn’t asked her, Lee Baker Davies started to explain in a headmistressy way, exactly what being a stylist meant—“a
sort of fashion interpreter, someone who helps the photographer get what the client’s looking for by choosing the clothes,
putting the right things together, adding, taking away, you know, that sort of thing.” Ginny nodded dutifully.

Before Baker Davies dropped her off, she said, with all the concern of a maiden aunt, “Are you dead set on becoming a model?”

There was a long pause. “Well, not really. Eventually I’m going to be a fashion designer.”

“That’s good.” Ms. B.D. sounded as if she meant it.

“Why?”

“It’s a tough business. You look like a sweet, unspoiled thing.”

Ginny could feel herself blushing. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“Just don’t get your hopes up too high, and if you do have
what it takes, don’t believe everything everyone tells you. I think you need to work on your look. You must have a certain
look. That doesn’t mean you aren’t cute, but…” Baker Davies leaned across and, to Ginny’s alarm, kissed her on the cheek.
“I hope I see you again.” Thank heavens she hadn’t tried to kiss her before, when they first got in the car. She would surely
have slugged her.

“Here’s my card. Call me if you need any help in this hell of a city and for God’s sake stay away from drugs.”

As if anyone had to tell her that! Ginny was about to tear the card up, but luckily looked at it first.
Harper’s Bazaar,
it said,
Lee Baker Davies, Contributing Editor.

Determined not to waste any more money on taxi drivers as ignorant of Manhattan as herself, Ginny spent a couple of hours
that evening, with Sophie’s help, researching the city’s transit system. It was something, she thought wryly, her father would
thoroughly have enjoyed.

At eight-thirty the next morning, with Sophie waving goodbye from her front door as if she was going off to war, Ginny—in
jeans, T-shirt and positive attitude—left, carrying her most avant-garde designs in one of Sophie’s garment bags.

It was lucky she allowed so much time, because the subway was sluggish. She lost her way once or twice changing trains and
didn’t arrive at the Tribeca studio until five minutes to ten.

Oz was ready to go to work, which included, Ginny swiftly learned, a wide variety of passes—as he adjusted her positions,
asked her to look at Polaroids of herself, and turned up in the makeshift dressing room behind a screen whenever he asked
her to change.

Nevertheless, in ten days, after hours of playing hide-and-seek with Oz, evading his most blatant pounces, Ginny had enough
pictures to create a contact sheet to show the model agency lucky enough to represent her.

She wore her own designs in all the shots, a keyhole swimsuit in denim (that was the most perilous Oz session of all), a body-molding,
long-sleeved bodysuit in oilskin, and her double-damask “Ms. Innocence” dress, as Oz called it.

There were also two close-ups, one with her hair slicked as close to her head as Oz slicked his, another with her hair blown
out in a voluminous cloud by a freelance hairdresser who’d dropped by.

Hairdressers, makeup artists and an endless procession of wannabe models with their “books” dropped in to see Oz throughout
the day, all hoping he would add them to his repertoire of sources. Soon, he told Ginny, he would have enough money to build
a reception area and hire a receptionist to block anyone without an appointment.

“The pictures are sensational,” Oz exclaimed, and Ginny agreed with him, particularly the way her clothes looked.

Sam Swid had been on the phone, noticeably relieved when she told him she was busy being photographed by Oz Tabori. “He’s
okay. He’s okay,” he said eagerly, as if she was looking for a reference.